Vignette 4: Vick Rethinks
by Loafer
Summary: Set right after S6 "Shawn Rescues Darth Vader," here Karen Vick reconsiders an earlier decision. Just a "write me down now" TWO-shot.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer** : covfefe

 **Rating** : T because I always do T

 **Summary** : this takes place IMMEDIATELY after S6 "Shawn Rescues Darth Vader." In that episode, as you recall (and if you don't recall, umm, SPOILER ALERT), the key character developments are that Lassiter tries to polygraph Juliet to get her to admit she's seeing Shawn; they fight and see Vick about splitting up, and Shawn declares he loves Juliet—and that he's psychic—in front of all the others while attached to the polygraph himself. We take a sharp turn from there, folks. As with my other vignettes, it's just an idea which popped up and demanded to be written out. (P.S. props to the unlogged in **LisaG** , who's been commenting her way through my stories, which prompted me to reread some myself and rekindled my interest in these characters.)

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Karen Vick sipped her coffee contemplatively, watching her top detective team through the half-closed blinds in her office.

Lassiter's dark head was down, his laptop angled so he faced the windows more than the bullpen. And across the hall, O'Hara was resolutely turned so she couldn't see him either.

Yesterday they'd wrapped up the Fanshawe case—not Karen's first involving a diplomat, but the first involving Shawn Spencer. Shivering a little at how well things had gone _despite_ that, she reviewed in her head the other events of the case, along with a decision she'd been pondering all night long.

Certainly it was worth more thought. Certainly she shouldn't rush into anything.

But the players on her stage—Lassiter, O'Hara, Spencer—weren't going anywhere, and truth be told, she didn't _want_ them to. Lassiter and O'Hara were excellent detectives, and even Spencer at his most annoying—which was pretty much all the time—usually got results, no matter how messy and convoluted and often embarrassing the process was.

Yet there was undeniably a mess here, and as the Chief of Police, she had multiple obligations to clean it up.

Stepping over to her phone, she called Lassiter at his desk. "Detective, please bring yourself and O'Hara into my office right now." Hanging up immediately, she sank into her chair, and had time for a few more sips of still-hot coffee before the two of them appeared.

"Close the door."

Lassiter did so, and he and his partner stood before her warily until Karen gestured for them to be seated.

They both looked tired, and she understood some of that wariness was between the two of them, not just because of her summons.

"A few days ago you came in here asking for new partners."

She missed neither the flash of irritation on O'Hara's face, nor the brief clenching of Lassiter's jaw.

"I told you no."

Nods.

"Well, I've changed my mind," she said briskly. "I realized there's both a larger problem to be solved, and a larger benefit to a split."

Pausing to take in their expressions—shock and dismay for O'Hara, stoniness from Lassiter belied by the shifting crystal blue of his eyes—she held up a hand when they both started to speak.

"You have worked very well together for a half dozen years, but it's clear to me—you may remember I'm a trained detective too, right?—that your partnership has been damaged significantly."

Both again tried to speak, and again she held up her hand.

"This is not the time to interrupt your supervisor."

"But Chief," O'Hara began anyway, and Karen shot her a glare. She fell quiet, but was restless, and glanced at Lassiter as if he could help.

He was staring at Karen.

"Lassiter, you're now partnered with Miller. O'Hara, you're with Dobson. This goes into effect on Monday morning. In addition, neither of you will be permitted to work cases involving Shawn Spencer again."

She eyed them both—each seemed frozen. "Do I need to explain why?"

Neither spoke.

She had another sip of coffee. To O'Hara, she said, "Dating." To Lassiter, she said simply, "Hating."

"I do not hate Spencer," he snapped. "I just think he's an ass."

"Duly noted," Karen said dryly. "Honestly, I just liked the rhyme. I will never defend Mr. Spencer's personality to anyone, and before you say one word, O'Hara, I also never want you to waste your breath or _my_ _time_ defending it either."

O'Hara, who in truth had _not_ seemed to be about to defend him, was even more still than before.

Karen leaned back in her chair. "I've let this go on too long. He's disruptive, and he affects your ability to work together. I won't have that, because you're both too valuable to the department for that crap. But I also know that human beings simply can't always operate at their most mature levels in high-stress situations. I would rather have you do excellent work separately and outside of Spencer's zone of mayhem than have you constantly struggle to overcome this huge source of friction."

"Chief," O'Hara said, her voice small, and Karen gave permission for her to continue. "I don't want this. I don't think Carlton wants this either."

Karen gazed at Lassiter. He was back to impassive, not looking at O'Hara. "Well?"

He said more firmly—but still without looking at O'Hara, "I think we can work it out, Chief."

O'Hara nodded. "Yes, _please_."

Another sip of coffee. It was cooling too quickly.

"No."

Both started to speak—she cut them off once more.

"O'Hara, for whatever reason, you've chosen a romantic relationship with a paid consultant for the department, one you work with on a regular basis. I assume this is what you wanted to 'come clean' about the other day? And you remember I was right there during his polygraph to hear his dramatic declaration of love?"

The young woman flushed, and glanced down into her lap. Lassiter was Stonehenge.

"Spencer gets enough attention as it is for his grandstanding. I already take heat from City Hall about his behavior, often in the same conversation where someone's telling me to hire him for a case. I definitely do not need any questions about the propriety of one of my lead detectives dating him. Therefore, you're not going to work with him anymore. Period. As for you, Lassiter," she went on, turning her attention back to his stony expression, "you are too good at your job to allow yourself to be distracted and annoyed down to his playground level. I need you focused on your cases, not on his antics. Therefore, you're not going to work with him anymore either. And you're not going to work with each other—at least not for the foreseeable future—because whether it was his goal or not, he's managed to drive a wedge between you that I simply don't have time for you to tiptoe around. We have jobs to do. You both chose this career to solve crime. That, you'll keep doing. Just not with each other, and not with him."

Setting the mug down with a bit more force than she intended, she sat up straight and studied her team.

O'Hara's dark blue eyes were wide, and her hands clenched in her lap. Lassiter's crystal blue eyes were impossible to read, and he radiated tension from head to toe.

"Please," O'Hara said softly.

Lassiter glanced at her, and then back at Karen. "Chief. A chance."

Karen sighed. "You're dismissed. I'll talk to Miller and Dobson later, and after that, I'll explain to Henry that his son is no longer allowed access to any case associated with either of you, even if it means passing off your cases to other teams—and that's if I think we _really_ need him, and to be frank, I'm going to make sure we don't need him for awhile. This place needs to settle down until everyone remembers why we're here and what we're supposed to be doing."

Lassiter swallowed.

O'Hara trembled. "How do we…" She took a breath. "How do we earn your trust back, Chief?"

" _My_ trust?" Karen smiled. "Start by earning each other's trust back, O'Hara. _I_ trust you're still good detectives. _I_ trust you'll do as I say—or move on if you can't. That's all the trust you need from me, and it's unwavering. The problem is you don't trust each _other_ anymore."

"We do," Lassiter said flatly.

"You lie, Lassiter. Not really to me, but to yourself. You distrusted her enough to try to _polygraph_ her. She distrusted you enough—or so I assume—to conceal her relationship with Spencer in the first place. You both sat in those chairs a few days ago and gave off veritable sparks of anger and injury."

They did not look at each other. Karen recognized guilt and pain and worry in the set of their shoulders. So different were they, and yet so alike.

She stood up. "So you see it's not _my_ trust that's at stake here. And I don't want any more time wasted while you two pussyfoot around each other and Spencer continually hammers that wedge in deeper. You want to be detectives? Then go finish up your joint cases and get ready for your new partners. You're dismissed," she repeated.

Neither moved. Both stared up at her. Both sets of blue eyes were searching, unsettled, imploring, uncertain…. everything at once.

"You're _dismissed_ ," she said a final time.

Lassiter stood up first, his gaze on the floor for a moment.

O'Hara followed slowly, and they turned toward the door.

Watching them leave, watching them head to their respective desks without speaking, Karen still felt certain this was the right course to take.

At least for now.

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	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO of a stinkin' ONE-shot vignette, thanks very much ~**

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Three weeks passed.

Slowly.

Karen observed her two new teams. Dobson and Miller were doing their best but it was clear that neither Lassiter nor O'Hara were fully invested in this change.

Not that they were talking much to each other.

She supposed they could be doing so outside of work—they _should_ —but on the job, it was all very civil and brief.

Henry had helped to implement her new policies regarding his son. High among them was Karen's reinforcement of a long-standing but often ignored station rule: no civilians beyond the main desk without a pass. No passes issued without prior appointments. And no Shawn Spencer visits period, unless he'd been summoned.

Which he hadn't.

Everything was much quieter. The disruptions came by way of crime, not colleagues, and that was as it should be.

She wondered how long it would take Lassiter and O'Hara to mend their fences. She deeply hoped they would, but had to proceed as if they wouldn't. Work, after all, was work.

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Juliet stepped out of her apartment, locking the door behind her, but before she reached the first step, she saw Carlton leaning against his car down in the lot below. Her heart rate quickened.

He hadn't talked to her, really, or let her talk to him, since Vick split them up a month earlier. She'd tried that first day but he just gave her a bone-weary sigh and shrug. _She made up her mind, O'Hara. Leave it alone for now_.

At the time she couldn't even argue. But she'd been longing to _really_ talk to him for awhile.

He took off his sunglasses as she approached, and those vivid blue eyes picked up all the light from the morning sun, but he didn't smile.

"I've come to apologize," he said levelly. "Please let me do that."

She wasn't sure what to expect. _He_ didn't have much to apologize for, did he?

Carlton didn't hesitate. "I'm sorry for polygraphing you. That was a dick move. I was pissed off because I had to figure out for myself that you were seeing Spencer, but what I should have done was _ask_ you."

"Actually, you shouldn't have _had_ to ask me," she murmured. Recent soul-searching had made this abundantly clear to her.

"No," he agreed, but without anger. "I shouldn't have. But once I knew, the adult thing to do was ask. Instead, I hooked you up to a damn machine because I stupidly assumed you'd lie. And then I had the nerve to lecture you about how _partners_ should act."

Juliet sighed. "During which conversation I _still_ evaded telling you the truth. You don't have a corner on the dick move market, Carlton."

She spotted a flicker of amusement in those blue blue eyes, and then he straightened up, glancing away from her briefly. "I just thought it was time to let you know I regret what I did. You deserved better."

"So did _you_." She'd never felt it more keenly. "I'm sorry I didn't have the courage to come to you about Shawn."

"I get it, though. But I'll be honest, I haven't missed him around the station."

She smiled. "Then I'll be honest too—I haven't either."

Carlton smirked and put his sunglasses back on. "See you later, O'Hara." He reached for the car door handle.

"Wait. _Wait_ , Carlton." She reached up and tugged the glasses off again, surprising him. Over his dark frown, she said, "I still want our partnership back."

He blinked. "So do I."

It seemed honest. The blue was clear and held no guile. She believed he was sincere, and this was a tremendous relief.

"But that's not up to us," he added.

"I think it is."

He rubbed his face. "Well, I got nothin'. Vick was adamant. And we both screwed up enough to deserve everything she said."

Juliet gazed at him a moment, then handed back his sunglasses. "Are you going to work _with_ me, or _against_ me, if I try to get her to change her mind?"

A slow smile curved his mouth. "With, partner. Always with. Good luck."

"So I'll see you for coffee tomorrow at Starbucks?" she challenged. "Seven-thirty sharp?"

Carlton laughed—and it felt real to her. "I'm up to it if you are."

She watched him drive away, and wondered how in the hell she could pull off a miracle.

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Two weeks earlier, on a night she'd stayed too late to finish paperwork, Juliet had found herself driving not home or to the Psych office, where Shawn was ensconced with Gus and TiVo, but over to Henry Spencer's house.

She wasn't sure why, except that Henry had a knack for getting to the heart of a situation.

The heart of _this_ situation was barely beating, she reflected. She'd accept help from any source.

He opened the door, one eyebrow up, a full bottle of beer in his hand. "Passing through?"

Juliet steeled herself. "I need some advice. Or… some insight. I don't know which. Both maybe."

"Hang on," he said, and gave her the bottle. "I was thinking about sitting out here awhile anyway. Back in a minute."

She took the far end of the glider and sipped the beer: cold, bitter, dark. The way she'd been feeling.

In a moment Henry reappeared with another bottle, and the two sat looking across the street and out at the blue ocean as the sun set. "You miss him," he said.

"Like crazy," she admitted. "He won't talk to me yet. I mean, he's not _not_ talking to me, he's just… not… talking to me. You get it?"

"I get it."

"And I don't know how we're going to get back to where we were if we can't work together."

"Maybe you can't, kid."

She protested instantly. "Henry, we are the best partners for each other. I know it. He knows it. You know it and I think Vick knows it. And with Shawn's role in our work life eliminated, there's no reason we can't get back, right?"

"Hmmm." He sipped his beer.

Juliet knew him enough to be suspicious. "What's that mean?"

"It means hmmm. You said he hasn't really talked to you. Why do you suppose that is?"

"Well, I—" She turned to him. "I guess he's still in shock. Maybe."

Henry eyed her. "When have you ever known Lassiter to be 'in shock' for two weeks?"

She stared back. "Well… what do you _mean_?"

Henry stretched his legs out, resting the beer on his chest. "Let me tell you something Karen said the day I got the big speech about your split."

Juliet tensed—and had no idea why.

"She said that as she talked to you both, she noticed two different reactions. You were horrified at the idea of splitting up. Unmistakable."

"So was Carlton," she said quietly.

Henry shook his head. "Not according to Karen. He didn't _like_ the idea of a split, but he wouldn't look at you. She said it didn't seem like he _could_."

Her mouth was dry. "I don't understand."

"He wasn't over it, Juliet. He was still carrying a lot of anger and hurt about what happened between you." Henry's voice was gentle. "That's what she saw. She saw a man who was thinking that maybe a split wouldn't be such a bad idea because maybe he needed some breathing room."

Twinging in her heart. "What could I have done differently?" she asked in a rush. "How could I have changed his feelings about me and Shawn? I couldn't. There was no way. You know that."

"You could have prevented his feelings of betrayal." Not so gentle the tone now. Implacable. _Sharp_. "The minute you knew you'd really started something with Shawn, you should have gone to him and said 'hey, partner, I know you're not gonna like this, but I'm telling _you_ first because you are my _partner_ , and given your opinion of Shawn, _you_ more than anyone else have a right to know this, whether it's something you like or not.' And he _wouldn't_ have liked it and he _would_ have groused about it and there'd have been a lot of eye-rolling but in the end he wouldn't have felt like you thought he was the enemy."

Juliet blinked back sudden tears.

Henry went on, "I know Lassiter can be a rigid pain in the ass. I know he and Shawn are oil and water. But his partnership with you, that was something good. I don't think he's had many successful personal relationships, and it was just his bad luck that my son blew into his life. For you of _all_ people to conceal from him that you were seeing Shawn—of _all_ people—had to seem like a stab in the back."

She took in a deep breath and then slugged back half the beer, because Henry was right. Of course he was right.

"You're entitled to a private life, and you've had other relationships. You didn't hide those from Lassiter, did you? And he took them well enough?"

"He was a little snarky about Cameron Luntz," she muttered.

"Well, that's because it was Cameron Luntz," he muttered back, and Juliet had to smile. "The point is—no, you know what the point is. You want your partnership back, I don't know how to help you. Karen's a stubborn lady with the best interests of the station at heart, and she'll need to see with her own eyes that you two can make it work. And that might take a lot of time, honey."

She sighed deeply. "If we can't work together, and he won't talk to me…" Another sigh. She was the queen of sighs these days.

"Give him time. And don't forget—just because he won't talk to you doesn't mean you can't make him _listen_. You _do_ have a service weapon."

He was grinning, and Juliet relaxed. "Okay. Points taken, all of them." She finished off the beer and set the empty bottle next to his. "Thanks, Henry."

Rising, she took another look at the fading light on the shimmering ocean.

Henry said slowly, "One more… insight, if you don't mind. About Shawn."

Juliet turned to him, curious. "What about him?"

"I… okay, that he cares about you was obvious way before his big reveal with the polygraph." He smiled. "But you should never forget that with Shawn, you have to look beyond the smoke and mirrors. Every time, Juliet. Always look for the truth. Hold his feet to the fire if you have to—and you _will_ have to."

She frowned at him—she knew he was right, but his tone was so… deliberate. "What are you saying, Henry?"

"I'm saying…" He let out a huge breath and got to his feet. "I'm saying the reason he and I yell at each other so much is that we get tired of spending so much time in the fire." He looked weary. "He's smart, and he's loyal, but he's not very good with the truth. You can trust the feelings, but never take honesty for granted. Fudging with that is always going to be his easy way out."

Goosebumps rippled across her skin but she had no idea what to say to him, or what to ask. Henry touched her arm, collected her bottle and his, and told her good night.

And now two weeks later, standing in her parking lot watching Carlton drive away, she felt those goosebumps again.

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The temporary assignment from Ojai had a nervous habit. He sat in Juliet's direct line of vision, about twenty feet away at his temporary desk, and studied a casefile. The whole time his attention was fixed on the file, he kept clipping and unclipping his ID badge. Clip on. Clip off. Then he'd flip it back and forth idly for a minute. Then he'd go back to clipping it on and off.

She was surprised he couldn't feel her glare. She was surprised she didn't throw a pencil at him along with some verbal abuse.

Clip. Unclip.

Turning her chair impatiently, she got up for coffee, and as the life-giving elixir filled her cup, she had a flashback to another ID badge. Another clip on… unclip… flip… something she'd noticed but not really _processed_. Stopping the flow of coffee, she frowned at the window in front of her. What was she thinking of? Who was that in her memory?

"O'Hara," Carlton said smoothly. "Please don't hog all the coffee. Other lives are in the balance."

Juliet beamed up at him. "Hey. Fancy meeting you here."

Since their parking lot conversation last week, they'd met at Starbucks most mornings. They'd traded case stories, mostly, staying away from anything more personal, but it was a start. She'd take it, because she really did miss her irascible Carlton, and any time rebuilding any part of their connection was worth it.

They couldn't talk now because Miller approached with a lead on one of their cases, and she watched them drift over to Carlton's desk, feeling an all-too-familiar pang of regret.

 _That should be you, O'Hara. You should be his partner._

Returning to her seat glumly, she glanced over at the new guy—still mindlessly clipping and unclipping—and mentally composed a precise and deadly threat to his life and health which must have gotten through because he suddenly looked up and at her, wide-eyed, hand frozen over the ID badge.

"Yeah," she muttered. "You heard that."

He dropped his hand and didn't clip-n-flip for at least the next hour.

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A whisper in the night.

 _I know how you know._

Not a whisper. Just a low voice.

 _I know how you know._

Louder, more like a hiss.

Juliet woke with a start.

 _I know how you know,_ she heard again in her head, sleep retreating as the chill of the air settled on her skin.

What the hell had she been dreaming?

Beside her, Shawn snuffled something unintelligible.

She smiled in the darkness. Lively as he was during the waking hours, he slept like the dead.

He didn't often stay over, and she was rarely at his place. He didn't seem to be either; they mostly met at the Psych office, and Gus was nearly always with them. She liked Gus a lot but had to admit it was hard to keep this new relationship… _personal_ … when they were seldom alone.

It was true what she'd said to Carlton—she didn't miss Shawn much at the station. It was nice to be able to concentrate on an investigation, on the mundanities which made it real and solid—and defensible in court— without the big show he always put on. And while Dobson wasn't quite as sharp or as fast as Carlton, his solid detective work helped her settle back into good practices. She'd been taking too many shortcuts chasing down leads tossed out via Shawn's _everything's urgent gotta go right now_ approach.

When she'd first come back to work after … _involuntary pause_ … the clock tower, her brief experience 'partnered' with Shawn had been eye-opening. She developed a new appreciation for her _real_ partnership with Carlton, the full-grown adult, and even though she could still smack him for cluelessly thinking that doing his taxes would help her get back on track, at least he'd _tried_ in his own dunderheaded way to help.

Shawn was a boyfriend. A friend. And a lover, sometimes, when he wasn't glued to Gus' side.

Carlton, on the other hand, was her _partner_. And she missed him.

And by God, she was going to figure out how to get him back. How to get Vick to _let_ her have him back.

 _I know how you know,_ she heard again, a tendril of the murky dream toying with her.

She almost recognized the voice, and she knew the words hadn't been directed at her. It was something she'd overheard, or seen, or… hell, she couldn't remember.

Yawning, she settled back against her pillow.

It would come to her, or it wouldn't.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Henry Spencer dumped a folder on Karen's desk and said, "Vouchers for you to sign."

She nodded at him from her spot at the window overlooking the bullpen. Lately when she took her own coffee break, she found herself positioned there to watch her teams at work.

Well, one particular _former_ team.

"And just who do you have your eye on?" he inquired with amusement.

Karen smiled. "You know who. I'm trying to figure out the level of thaw between them." Moving to her desk, she added, "It's looking better."

"I'd say it is. Sometimes I overhear them making plans to meet for coffee."

"That's a good start. More than once?"

"Yeah, over the last couple of weeks. She, uh, came to see me a while back. I told her to give him time but to not stop talking to him."

"Excellent." She opened the folder and picked up a pen.

"You're giving me the impression you _want_ them partnered again," he prompted.

"Of course I do. As good as they are independently, they're even better together."

Henry stared at her, puzzled.

But he couldn't _really_ be puzzled—he was too sharp for that. Karen elaborated, "She softens his edges. He sharpens hers."

A faint scowl crossed his face. "Then what's this been _about_?"

Karen scowled right back. "Henry, this place was in an uproar. Between my negligence and your son's antics, we'd all gotten unacceptably lax about a hell of a lot of things. They needed this time apart."

"I know. I know they did." He settled into the chair across from her. "Not sure I'd call it _negligence_."

"I would. I let the _results_ blind me to the effects of the _process_. And that process damn near took out my best team."

"So… so…" He seemed at a loss. "What's the plan?"

She set the pen down and sat back. "In about a month, there should be an open detective position over at Ventura PD."

"And you think one of _them_ will request a transfer?" He was dubious.

"Of course not. I think Miller will."

"Miller. How did we get on Miller?"

"You're losing your edge, Henry," she teased. "Miller finally got out of uniform and into the detective squad a year ago. But my players are long-term, and opportunities for advancement are few and far between."

He was still frowning.

"Henry," she sighed. "If Miller goes, we'll get a rookie. Dobson makes a great first partner for rookies."

Finally his expression cleared. "Which gives you a legit opening to put Lassiter and O'Hara back together. Got it."

"Took ya long enough."

"Of course," he countered slyly, " _technically_ the head detective is supposed to take the rookies."

Karen smirked. "I know, but the last rookie he got was O'Hara—not counting the novelty of Gooch. He never wanted to give up O'Hara, and Dobson has been an excellent trainer in the years since. I've let it be, because a high-functioning and moderately mellow Lassiter is much preferable to the tightly-wound alternative." She inspected the contents of her coffee mug. "I haven't lost all my mojo yet, Henry."

"No, ma'am, you have not." He grinned and got to his feet. "Hope you can still sign vouchers with that much skill."

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton spotted Juliet near the far end of the wide courthouse hall; her head was down as she scanned the contents of an envelope, and he felt a curious lightness to know that if he were to approach her, she would smile at him, chat a bit and _it would feel right_.

It hadn't felt right for a long time, and until he got his head out of his ass and went over to her place and apologized last month, he'd been sure it would never feel right again.

Their morning coffees were the best way to start the day now, but not being partnered with her was still hard. Very hard. Unbelievably hard.

Miller was a good guy and pretty good for a relative rookie—his decade in uniform had served him well—but he just wasn't Juliet, and didn't yet have the nerve to call him on his crap like Juliet would have.

But still… to have the friendliness back was A-plus kick-ass fantastic. He doubted, because he was genetically at least 42% composed of doubt, that Karen Vick would change her mind about their split. He hoped Juliet was cooking up some scheme to bring it to pass but he _had_ to doubt, because hope was an illusion he couldn't afford. He considered himself damn lucky—blessed, even—to have had six years with her.

Debating now whether to continue his trek to Judge Darrow's office to turn in the file his staff had requested or to veer off and speak to Juliet, he found the decision made for him when she looked up suddenly and off to her right.

Beyond her, he saw a gaggle of lawyers and uniforms surrounding Charles Wignall. His trial date was approaching—for the murder of Annabeth York—and he hadn't been able to find his way out of jail yet. Flight risk, the D.A. convinced the judge, and Carlton thought he was right.

Wignall, stripped of his diplomatic immunity, family, and dignity, was looking a bit ragged. They'd given him a suit for whatever court appearance he had lined up today, but his age was showing and jailhouse life didn't appear to be helping him sleep.

Juliet was staring at him, and Carlton couldn't figure out the expression on her face. She took a few steps in Wignall's direction, and all he could see now was that the set of her shoulders was suddenly one of determination.

What the hell was that about? She had no reason to have any particular interest in Wignall. They'd well and truly closed his God-forsaken case, and unless she was going to yell at him about how murdering Annabeth had led to the dissolution of her partnership, why would she have any particular need to speak to him?

Forget the D.A.'s summons. He started after Juliet. Her anxiety level was clearly too high for him to walk away now.

She edged in on Wignall, flashed her badge at a lawyer. Said something which made both the lawyer and Wignall relax.

Carlton was maneuvering through the rising tide of people in his way, his gaze fixed on her slim form.

Wignall listened to her, growing very still. He looked… calculating. She spoke again.

He said something in response, one eyebrow quirked. Carlton cursed himself for not taking that lip-reading course.

Juliet shook her head. Spoke. After a pause, Wignall smiled. He murmured something.

Carlton was stuck behind a paralegal and two book trucks loaded with legal volumes.

Juliet's shoulders grew even more rigid. He wished he could see her face as she spoke.

Wignall nodded slowly.

Again, she spoke. Again, he nodded slowly.

Juliet turned abruptly and walked away, and didn't see Carlton before he stepped into her path.

She was pale and her eyes were huge and she gasped out his name.

"O'Hara, what's going on?"

She was trembling.

He put his hands on her arms and held tight; and she closed her beautiful eyes and damn if a tear didn't slide down her flushed cheek.

"O'Hara," he said again, more anxiously, and drew her into an alcove. "What is it? What did you want with that lowlife?"

And why was he _certain_ it had something to do with Spencer?

She drew in a deep and shuddery breath. "I can't… I… oh, Carlton. I can't talk about this right now." Brushing the tear away, she looked up at him imploringly. "Please, I—"

"Calm down," he said as gently as he could, standing closer.

Another tear slipped out, and dammit, he could not overcome his need to hold her; he wrapped his arms around her and for a few moments she clung to him, breathing hard and holding on just as tightly.

Beyond the alcove, people moved and babbled and shuffled along; where they stood was an oasis.

Juliet got herself together—but he sensed it was a temporary state—and stood away from him. Her voice stronger, she managed, "I promise I will tell you. I won't have secrets from you again, Carlton, ever. But I need a little time to process this, okay? Please say you understand."

How the hell could he say no to _her_? "I do. I understand."

She fanned her flushed cheeks and took another breath. "Okay. I'm… thank you. So much. You have no idea."

"Let me get you home," he suggested, not sure she was fit to drive.

"I'm okay. I just need to deliver a file first."

"I'm delivering too. I'll take yours wherever it needs to go." He plucked the envelope from her unresisting grasp, seeing it was marked for Judge Arden's office. "But go home, O'Hara. You're obviously too upset to try to get any work done now."

She managed a faint smile. "Are you saying I'm not man enough for the job?"

Carlton raised one eyebrow. "Yes, O'Hara. I'm saying you're not man enough for the job."

"Okay then. Just so we're clear." She touched his arm. "Thank you, Carlton. Thank you."

"No need. Just text me later to say you got home safely."

She promised she would, and was gone, leaving him with a head full of questions—but also the certainty that from this moment on, he would do whatever was necessary to officially get her back as his partner.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

In the dim light of her bedroom, curled up in her rocking chair under her favorite afghan, Juliet brushed back another tear. About the millionth so far.

As soon as she'd spotted Charles Wignall, the dream had flashed into her mind.

 _I know how you know._

She remembered. And she _had_ to talk to him, so she'd approached and said to him and the closest attorney that she had a personal question. Not a police matter.

Wignall had been uninterested until she said, "When we arrested you, you told Shawn Spencer 'I know how you know.' But I didn't hear his answer." She'd thought Wignall was just denying Shawn's abilities, challenging his vision. She never thought…

"Ah. And is _that_ the 'personal' question? What he said to me?"

"No." She hesitated. Shawn's answer was immaterial. "I want to know… how you knew. I know you're pleading innocent. I don't care about that. I'm not here about that. I just need to know how you knew."

He studied her a while, speculative, but his gaze never wavered. "Detective O'Hara, how do you _think_ I knew?"

A chill galloped through her body.

She whispered, "Because… because you saw him come into the room."

From where Wignall was hiding in the closet. Just feet from where he'd shoved Annabeth York's body under the bed.

Wignall nodded with deliberate slowness.

The air her lungs needed was barely there. She felt nauseated.

"Because he found the body himself."

Same slow nod. Same slow, damnably _knowing_ nod.

She'd fled.

Straight into Carlton's grasp, she'd fled.

And he'd steadied her, and he'd allowed her to leave him without an explanation, and now she was here absorbing it all.

Shawn had been texting her. She couldn't answer him.

He _could_ still be psychic. He could be a psychic who simply happened to find a body. Right?

And then lied about it. Why? Because he was in that house for some other reason he wouldn't admit to?

Gus, during Shawn's polygraph. Gus was the other key.

There was so much she had been too distracted, too _blind_ , to see. To register. To absorb. To SEE.

Shawn hesitated when Carlton asked if he was psychic.

Okay, that could be a natural hesitation. It was a big, important question. Hesitation was not itself an indicator of a lie.

But _Gus_ was.

Gus was a _big_ damn indicator. He was, in his way, Shawn's 'tell.'

Gus unclipped his visitor's pass. He flipped it to show his company badge instead. And the look on his face—she felt so damned stupid—the look on his face said clearly _I knew this would happen someday. We are screwed_.

Juliet got up and put on her shoes. Before she collected her keys, she called Henry Spencer.

"Hey, kid, what's doing?" He was at the station; she could hear the background chatter.

"Henry. If for some reason I had a search warrant for your home, would I find a polygraph machine hidden away in a closet?"

She hadn't planned to ask so abruptly.

The silence between them now was deep—even the background noises faded away.

"Henry."

He sounded faint. "No."

She said again, "Henry."

"But…" He cleared his throat. "If you'd executed that search warrant ten years ago, you'd have found the one I later donated to the college for their criminal investigation lab."

"Thank you, Henry." She disconnected and drove over to the Psych office.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Gus offered to leave when she said "Shawn, we need to talk."

But she said no, because he was part of it.

She didn't yell. She didn't cry.

She laid everything out factually. When Shawn protested, she went on as if he hadn't spoken.

 _Hold his feet to the fire_ , Henry had advised. _Every time, Juliet_.

Because Henry had taught Shawn just about everything he knew.

He wasn't psychic. He'd lied about all that. He'd lied about the photo. He'd lied about being in the house. He'd lied his way through the polygraph.

"I wasn't lying about my _feelings_ ," he said plaintively—an admission he'd been lying about everything else.

But she knew. That lone declaration had come in an unguarded moment—so rare with Shawn. She knew it was genuine.

She was glad she hadn't pressed him for more in the coming days and weeks. She was glad she'd never said it back to him. She'd felt it—she still did feel it—but she was glad the words had remained unexpressed.

"I can't see you anymore," she said. "Not for a long time. If you don't understand why, ask Gus. He'll explain it to you."

Gus asked softly, fearfully, "What are you going to do about…what you know?"

She looked at him, trying to see through the mist in her eyes. "I don't know. But if I were you, I'd stop calling this a _psychic_ detective agency. Probably before I'm even a block away."

"Please, Jules," Shawn said. "Give me a chance to explain. _Please_."

"What are you going to say, Shawn? What are you going to say that I could possibly believe? Just let me remember the positives. We had those. Those were real. _Just let me have those_."

She stood up and walked out, and he didn't call after her.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

In the morning, dry-eyed and resolute, she went to Carlton's desk as soon as Henry—who'd only nodded sadly at her—stepped away.

He looked her over appraisingly. "You okay?"

"Yes. Thank you. I… I have a _lot_ of things to tell you, things you have a right to know because you're my partner, but first, would you come with me to see Vick?"

Carlton stood up immediately. "You have a plan?" His smile lit those crystal blue eyes. "Because I'm in, and the rest can wait."

"Follow me," she said with a grin. He hadn't even thought to correct her when she called him _partner_.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Karen looked up at O'Hara's tap.

 _Finally._

"Yes, detectives?"

"A few minutes of your time, Chief?"

"If you like. Close the door?"

Lassiter did, and she waited for them to be seated.

"Chief," O'Hara started. "You said we had to earn each other's trust back, and I think we have."

"I'm delighted to hear it."

"But… I guess you'll need to see for yourself, right?"

"That's correct." She studied O'Hara, noting her resolve—and damned proud of her for it.

"Well, how can you see if it we can't work together?"

Karen smiled inwardly but remained silent. Beside O'Hara, Lassiter seemed to be debating which one of them to ask " _Yeah, how_?"

O'Hara pressed on, "I propose a trial period. Give us… I don't know. Six months. Six months as partners, to work side by side and put in all the time we need to prove we are the best frickin' set of partners you have ever frickin' _seen_."

Lassiter grinned broadly until Karen glanced at him, but even when he subsided, it wasn't by much.

Karen looked back at O'Hara. "This is your proposition?"

"In full, Chief."

"Lassiter, you're on the same page?"

He said evenly, "I'm in the same damned sentence, Chief."

She remained neutral for a few more moments, rather enjoying the anxious way they were both looking at her. Because it was out there now—their commitment to never let any crap stand between them again.

 _Finally._

"Four months, detectives. Effective Monday. Don't screw it up."

They fist-bumped, O'Hara pink and Lassiter positively beaming.

"Get out already," she said with a laugh. "Send Dobson and Miller in."

They were gone in a flash, and Karen leaned back for a moment, basking in the joy of a mission accomplished.

A little time to think, a lot less interference by Shawn Spencer (Shawn-terference?), and her best team was _back_.

 _Hell yeah, I rock._

 _Hell yeah._

 **. . . . . .**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **. . ..**

 **NOW it's the**

 **E N D.**


End file.
